


Tumblr Ficlets

by demonologistindenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 12,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27798664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonologistindenim/pseuds/demonologistindenim
Summary: A collection of my various, random Tumble ficlets about Crowley, the Winchesters and Castiel. Just posting here before they disappear into the dark depths of that blue hellsite.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. What Would Crowley Do?

The boys are – once again – in trouble. Cas is down for the count. Saving the day falls, unexpectedly, to Crowley.

Right, Crowley things to himself. What would the Winchesters do?

Likely something incredibly stupid and unnecessarily heroic, pitching them all into even greater danger, risking the entirety of the world, and requiring some dramatic sacrifice that ultimately would start the process all over again.

No good, then.

Alright, he thinks to himself. If on the highly unlikely chance that I were – possibly – to be even remotely concerns about (once again) saving the world from complete annihilation, and sparing the Winchesters and their irritatingly self-righteous ass of an angel from further suffering, and in that particular instance, I just so happened to be – shall we say – acting with full intent as “one of the good guys,” Crowley works his jaw, considering. What would I do?

He takes a moment to draft out and develop a multitude of extensive, detailed schemes, utilizing his vast array of resources, information and experience. The pros and cons are properly if somewhat biasedly weighed, alternatives and secondary contingency plans considered and either rejected or logged, and the first dozen steps of the settled strategy mentally begun in earnest. You can never be too many steps ahead, after all.

Ah, yes. Much better.


	2. Three Wishes

Crowley sits on his throne, waiting and wishing for the Winchesters to call.

His minions drag in a djinn, her skin wreathed in blue squiggles, her hair a bright and matted snarl. She’s frail, wide-eyed and frantic in her stammering. Hasn’t eaten in months. Mistook the demonically possessed for a potential snack.

Spare me, she begs. Spare me and I’ll – I’ll grant you three wishes!

Three wishes. What might Crowley accomplish with three wishes?

He thinks how he could wish for complete and undisputed control over Hell. For infinite power, for compulsive respect from his minions, from monsters and hunters and angels and gods alike. He could wish for domination and subservience and others’ admittance to apologies owed. He could wish for the dissipation of his semi-restored soul and be at peace, even if that peace is being entombed in all-consuming darkness. Numb, but unaware and uncaring of what has been lost. He could wish for acceptance, for forgiveness, love. Redemption.

But in the end, Crowley doesn’t wish for any of those things. Not when he’s only being offered three wishes.

Instead, he wishes that Castiel feels like he has a purpose, that he belongs. And that Sam no longer feels like he needs to prove he’s good enough. And Dean. For Dean, Crowley wishes that a peaceful night’s sleep comes easier, that the pain and the memories and the fear of loss just fade away. He wishes Dean is no longer made to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And then Crowley kills the djinn. He’s known all along she can’t grant him any sort of wish. And she will only share his wishes, should she be allowed to live.

Crowley goes back to his throne, and wishes he were anywhere – anyone – else.


	3. Fall Sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [Fall Sweaters](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/628438068855242752/crowley-has-an-unspoken-appreciation-for-fall)

Crowley has an unspoken appreciation for fall sweaters. They’re warm and cozy and comfortable, and he can allow himself the luxury of wearing a cotton t-shirt underneath, with no one the wiser. He likes to pair them with dark corduroys, on days when he lounges in the library or shuffles about his makeshift office in an unused bedroom or takes Juliet out for long romps through the leaves. Fall sweaters make him crave mug of hot coco with a dollop of whipped cream, and baked apples spiced with cinnamon, maple syrup drizzled over buttermilk pancakes. Fall sweaters means nights around a campfire and the smell of wood smoke, passing a flask of whiskey, telling long tales as the night descends. Fall sweaters mean unexpected but never unwelcome hugs from some of the younger hunters and demonologists. They mean gatherings with friends, of gratitude and appreciation and family. To Crowley, fall sweaters mean another year passing away, the past falling further and further behind on this long road, and both the world around him and something inside him shining warm and golden and bright.


	4. Give That Moose A Cookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [Give That Moose A Cookie](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/630187448834588672/crowley-making-cookies-in-the-kitchen-in-the)

Crowley: *making cookies in the kitchen in the bunker*

Sam: *wanders in* That, uh, that smells pretty good. What are you making?

Crowley: Elvis cookies.

Sam: Huh.

Crowley: *smiling to himself* Chocolate, peanut butter and banana.

Sam: *huffs, but smiles* Healthy.

Crowley: *only mildly defensive* Delicious.

Sam: *eyes the tray of cooling cookies* Can I, uh…Can I have one? Or are they all for Dean?

Crowley: *starts to offer a cookie to Sam, then pauses, gives Sam a look* This isn’t going to turn into a If You Give A Moose A Muffin situation, is it?

Sam: *huffs again, unconvincingly this time, clearly lying* N-No. *mutters under his breath, abashed* That would be stupid.

Crowley: *gives him a knowingly look, turns back to the oven*

Sam: *leaves the room looking uncomfortable but also happy to have a cookie*

Dean: *passing him in the doorway* I smell me some cookies!


	5. Not A Hugger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post, based off an adaptation of another Tumblr blog: [Not A Hugger](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/630974778691502080/sehyn-my-mom-says-shes-not-a-hugger-but-when-i).

Even after he’s chooses to complete the cure and become fully human, Crowley says he’s not a hugger. But when they’ve all once again made it out alive of some apocalypse or another, and they each wrap their arms around one another, hold onto life and each other in amazement and gratitude, Crowley is the last to let go. He says he doesn’t need anything when Dean goes on a supply run, or calls in a takeout order, or wanders off to the vending machine. But they all see the way his face lights up when Dean brings back a box of his favorite tea, or remembers to order another side of fries, or drops an extra 75 cents for a Twix. He’s just a lonely little boy inside, really. Crowley never says he cares about any of the boys. But whenever one of them says ‘I just need to solve this case, then I’ll get some sleep,’ he wordlessly sets to work on putting all the pieces together for them. And if he sees Dean or Sam or Cas fumbling through a spell, he mutters ‘give me that, you flannelled dullard’ and conjures it and then hands it over without even sparing them a glance. The thing is, he loves the boys quietly. And they love him quietly, from an established distance. The bunker and the back seat of the Impala and the spaces left by words unsaid reverberating with tiny, grand gestures of love and forgiveness. And if they ever thought to look for them, Dean and Sam and Cas and Crowley would find them everywhere, no matter how small or quiet those gestures might be.


	6. Happy Birthday, Hekate1308

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post, written for mutual Hekate1308's birthday in 2020: [Birthday Card](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/626886981500207104/hekate1308-because-it-wouldnt-fit-in-the-ask)

Dean walks into the library of the bunker to find demon-turned-demonologist Crowley smiling faintly and typing away at his laptop.

Dean: Huh. What‘re you working on that’s got you smiling like that?

Crowley: *looking surprised, then trying to act normal* Ah. Nothing.

Dean: *faintly suspicious and judgmental look*

Crowley: *sighs in irritation* If you must know, I’m sending a short congratulatory message to someone online. *hesitates, mildly embarrassed, mumbles* It’s their birthday.

Dean: Wait, wait. Hold on. You’re wishing someone online a happy birthday? Who the hell do you talk to online?

Crowley: I… *shifting around in his seat, turns back to the laptop with a back-to-work look on his face* On occasion, I check in on some of the more prominent Supernatural fandom sites. To keep abreast of their awareness of and involvement in actual supernatural phenomenon. They can be a useful source of information, from time to time.

Dean: And you’ve made friends with some of them. And you… *gestures like he can’t quite get the idea to make sense* chat with them.

Before Crowley can defend himself, Sam and Cas stroll into the room. Crowley looks to them for help before realizing his mistake.

Sam: Dean? What’s up?

Dean: Get this – Crowley’s got a friend in the online Supernatural fandom and is *pauses, doesn’t know what to do with himself* wishing them happy birthday.

Sam: *both confused and concerned, to Crowley* You’re what?

Crowley: *clearly irritated at this point* It’s a simple direct message wishing them a pleasant day! I don’t know why this is such a big deal!

Dean: You’ve been working on it for while now-

Crowley: *yelling* Because I keep getting bloody interrupted!

Cas: Crowley is not particularly good at wishing anyone a pleasant anything. Perhaps we should help.

Crowley: *his voice almost a high-pitched squeak* What?! No!!

Dean leans down next to Crowley and reaches across him to turn the laptop towards himself.

Dean: “Dear hekate1308, congratulations on yet another year…” Dude, Cas is right. You need our help.

Crowley: *trying to shove Dean’s hands away from the keyboard* I absolutely do not!

Sam: *leaning over Crowley’s other side to read the screen* Maybe try sounding a little more casual? And, you know, sincere?

Cas: And add some emojis.

Crowley: *near apoplectic with rage and embarrassment* That’s you’re solution to everything, you feathered simpleton!

Cas: *a little put out* Well, they’re an excellent means of communication.

Dean: *typing away* How about just a good old fashioned “Happy Birthday!”?

Sam: *taking the keyboard away from his brother* Dude, come on. *teasingly* This person deserves a little more than that for putting up with Crowley.

Crowley: I hate you all. I want you to know that.

Cas: *standing behind Crowley’s chair now, so that all three are gathered tightly around him* Don’t use that party hat emoji, Sam. It needs to look like this actually came from Crowley. Use a black heart.

Sam: Good thinking.

Dean: *pats Crowley on the shoulder* See, man? We got you. This is going to be the best birthday message your friend ever got!

Crowley sighs in resignation. Sam finishes typing and the two Winchester brothers straighten up and join Cas in looking down admiringly at their work.

Dean: Well? You gonna hit send or what?

Why the hell not, Crowley thinks to himself. It is better than anything he’s been able to come up with.

"Happy birthday, hekate1308! The Supernatural fandom wouldn’t be the same without you! 🖤 🖤 🖤 - your friend, C."


	7. Three Days At The Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post (with images): [Three Days at the Beach](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/631008768743882752/bugger-off-mate-adventures-of-crowley-in-the)

I like the idea that Crowley planned for his little foray into the Mariannas Trench. He booked himself a three-fingered snap to Guam. Strolled the boardwalks and dallied in the tourist shacks, picking up a pair of sunglasses, a wide-brimmed straw hat, a beach towel and a pair of cockatoo-patterned swim trunks. As loud and as brazenly touristy apparel as he could find. And a camera on a tripod, a beach chair, a stripped umbrella. Props, to really sell it. He lingered at a tacky cabana for a few hours, sipping at fruity pink cocktails with tiny umbrellas as he looked over maps for just the right beach. Eventually, there was no more delaying the inevitable.

Once properly dressed in his beach attire, Crowley snapped himself, his chair and umbrella and all his props to his beach of choice. It was relatively secluded, but not to isolated or private that a passerby might wonder at his presence. He set up his chair facing the ocean, the camera on its tripod staring wide-eyed at the waves, everything nestled under the umbrella. Everything far enough away that the tide would never quite reach. Then Crowley, in all his tourist glory, sat. And for just a moment, allowed himself to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

Then he leaned back his head. Opened his mouth. Billowed out of his meatsuit. The body slumped in the chair, chin to chest, hat tilted downward. The red cloud of oily smoke disappeared down into the waves, racing towards the darkest, deepest part of the ocean. And the body just…sat. Being empty, it stayed where it was left. Looking for all the world and to any casual beach-goer like a man dozing in a beach chair under an umbrella, photography hobby momentarily forgotten.

And there the meatsuit stayed, for three days. Warded against decay by powerful spells, there was no danger to the meatsuit from decomposition or the tropical warmth or the salt spray. It could rest there as long as Crowley needed it that way, so that his demonic form might remain unencumbered by weight or form or pressure under the ocean. Close enough at hand he could return to it if necessary. Unlikely to be mistaken for a corpse and accidentally interned or cremated. Just…there.

But three days is a long time for a man to doze uninterrupted on a beach. I imagine the meatsuit would have had visitors. In the later mornings, there were curious seagulls. At night, there were crabs. At one point, there was a stray octopus that joined the meatsuit under the shade of the umbrella before making its way back to the water. An errant beach ball, lost or forgotten and now being played with by the wind, nearly knocked down the tripod. A few wild dogs came over to investigate, were warned away by the protective warding, grew bored of sulking around its edges, and settled for making off with a sandal that had slipped off when the sand under one of the meatsuits’ feet had shifted slightly.

The most notable visitors were a pack of children. They did what any normal pack of children would do upon seeing a sleeping man on the beach. They messed with stuff they normally wouldn’t be allowed to touch. This involved a lot of taking pictures with the camera. A lot of poses, a lot of laughter. Eventually, they tried to strike up a conversation with the sleeping man, with the local equivalent of “hey, mister.” And when this didn’t elicit a response, they tried to wake him, with nudges and shakes and loud shouting. One even suggested filling a bucket with water and dumping it on him. But they didn’t have a bucket, so never mind that. Finally, one of the boys decided they’d better check that this dozing man wasn’t really a dead man, and though not entirely sure how to go about that, lifted the wide-brimmed straw hat to get a good look at the man’s face. The glassy, staring eyes and slack jaw were enough to send the entire pack of children running and hollering down the beach in a windmilling of tanned arms and legs, off to wherever there were adults who would, ultimately, pay the children’s excited yammering no mind.

I like to imagine that after three days down in the deepest, darkest part of the ocean, Crowley returned to his meatsuit, glad to be back on solid ground and in even more solid, unsalted flesh. He’d have been mildly annoyed that he’d misjudged the coverage provided by the umbrella, so that he was sunburned from his shins to his toes, that his wide-brimmed hat had been stolen or blown away, and he was missing a sandal. If he ever thought to have the film from the camera developed, he might have found all the photos to be of smiling, rambunctious children. But I like to imagine that he still would have sat for a moment, absently enjoying the beach and the waves, contemplating what to do next about the First Blade, considering it was not where Cain had said it would be. And deciding that any further planning would best be done over another pink, fruity cocktail. He snapped himself away, taking the camera and the sunglasses and the unused beach towel with him, but leaving the chair and the umbrella and the single sandal behind. And while it hadn’t even remotely been a vacation, it might have been enough to one day tempt Crowley to [join the Winchesters on Dean’s long-awaited trip to the beach.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295905)


	8. End of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [End of the Road](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/190850387308/after-sacrificing-himself-to-close-the-rift)

After sacrificing himself to close the rift, Crowley wakes to find himself back in his palace, on the throne, alone in the semi-darkness of his self-made prison. He grasps the arms of the throne and holds on. Closes his eyes, counts unnecessary breaths. Wills away the shadows that gather around him, the tumultuous whisperings of past wrongs. Crowley forces himself to wait.

All he has to do is wait.

Time passes. Far more time than Crowley could have ever imagined. And then, just as he’s about to give up, his phone chimes. It’s a message. A message from Dean.

We’re outside. You coming? 

Crowley thrusts himself off the throne. He barrels through the doors of his throne room. Charges down the halls, through the twisting corridors of barren stone and cobwebs and unwelcome reminders. Clatters to a halt in the grand entryway, stops just before the massive double doors that lead out. Puts his hand on the iron handle, takes a deep breath. Opens the door.

Stands, dazed and uncertain, in the doorway.

There are the stairs leading down to the road, and the road stretching endlessly out to the side in either direction. The crumbling walls of the old asylum are there, foreboding and indifferent. And nothing else. Beyond the stairs and the road, all is light.

And on the road, the Impala is waiting.

There is Dean and Sam, looking younger and less burdened than Crowley has ever seen them. There is Cas, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt all his own, the trench coat draped casually over one arm. There are his friends – his family – waiting for him.

Dean leans against the side of the car, arms and legs casually crossed, looking up expectantly. “Well?”

Crowley smiles, and steps beyond the doorway, towards the stairs, towards the car, towards the boys. His clothes have changed. He’s swearing a soft cotton shirt under a faded overshirt and a well-worn jacket. Of course he is. That’s what he’s always worn. He’s always worn boots dusted with a bit of dried mud, carried a demon knife on his hip, born an anti-possession tattoo on his shoulder. There’s always been a book in his bag, a spell on his lips, and another’s shoulder to lean on. This is who he’s always been, isn’t it?

He takes the steps two at a time, reaches the road, receives a hearty slap on the back from Cas. Sam grabs him by the shoulder, gives him a shake. Dean hugs him, like he hasn’t seen him in a damn long time.

Because they’ve haven’t seen each other in a damn long time, Crowley thinks. “Why the bloody hell did it take you three so long?”

“We had a few things to take care of first,” Dean says, as they all open the doors to their respective seats and slip into the comfortable, eternal sanctuary of the Impala. “First there was Lucifer and then there was Chuck and then there was yet another end of the world, and it just kinda went on and on. But we’re here now.”

It doesn’t really matter where here is, exactly.

“Where do you think this road goes?” Castiel asks, squinting past Dean’s shoulder at the long stretch that fades into the brightness beyond.

“I don’t know.” Dean stares out through the windshield, taps the steering wheel. Smiles. “But, there are three things I do know.”

Shifting slightly in his seat, Dean looks over his shoulder to share a grin with Crowley. “Wherever that road takes us, it’s going to be one hell of a ride.”

He turns back around and catches Cas’ eye in the review mirror. “And it’s a road we can drive down for as long as we want.”

And then Dean looks to Sam, and smiles. “And we’re driving down it together.”

Crowley feels adrenaline course through his every nerve like a rock n’ roll guitar solo, feels his heart race, and something brighter than all the light around them rise up inside him as the engine of the Impala roars to life.

So much for “the end of the road”.


	9. The Witcher

The four boys successfully save a typical suburban neighborhood from the ravages of some monster. Once everything is getting back to normal, the boys tend their farewells and are on their way back to the Impala when one of the neighbors comes running over.

Neighbor: Wait, you can’t leave yet! We’re going to have a neighborhood pot luck and bbq, to celebrate!

Sam: We really can’t stay-

Neighbor: There’s going to be a pig roast and kegs of beer and a bouncy castle.

Dean: We’re in!

Crowley: *smugly, as the four of them throw their gear back into the trunk and begin to follow the neighbor to where people are gathering*: 🎶 Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty, oooh… 🎶

Dean: Shut up. And stop watching so much Netflix.

Sam: I…think that makes me the horse.

Cas: *dryly* It does, as I am obviously the lovely, otherworldly mage. *hurries after Dean*


	10. Stull Cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post and OP post here: [Stull Cemetery](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/615777113245712384/stull-cemetery-is-located-in-the-small-kansas-town)

Stull Cemetery is a 20 minute drive from Lawrence, Kansas. So as far as any of us should be concerned, this is the hell gate Crowley comes through whenever he’s collaborating with the boys to stop an apocalypse.

Dean: So, uh, what happened in Stull Cemetery that made it so evil?

Crowley: Hm? Oh, nothing.

Dean: But you use it as a hell gate.

Crowley: Well, of course, now we do. Now that everyone thinks the place is “tainted by evil.” But that didn’t start till some college kids published silly little stories in their campus paper. You know, back during the obsession with satanic rituals and what not in the ‘70s.

Dean: Okay, yeah, but…that’s where Sam and I had that big show down with Lucifer and Michael. So something must have happened there, right? I mean, in our experience, these sorts of things have at least some basis in truth.

Crowley: *gives him the side-eye* Did you ever think that, maybe, people might misinterpret or exaggerate stories about how evil something is, just to scare themselves or to demonize others? That maybe something might not be that evil after all?

Dean: No.

Crowley: *sighs*


	11. The Significance of All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [The Significance of All Things](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/613886068224294912/i-imagine-fergus-macleod-was-a-sullen-and-scared)

I imagine Fergus MacLeod was a sullen and cautious little boy, but also observant and bright. I imagine he worked very hard to survive, preferred cunning to violence but would employ which ever best ensured his continued ability to draw breathe. He could be a scrappy fighter when needed. Fergus had learned at an early age that nothing ever came of tears or complaints, and so made neither when beat on, bullied, or bested, whether by his mother or later by other boys in the poorhouse. He was full of sleeping, studied fury that made his thin hands shake when condensed into fists. But he could not be goaded into foolishness, or games, and spent much of his childhood alone. 

Fergus was greedy, hungry. Not for food, which he knew to carefully ration, picking bread apart and eating each small mouthful with a steady, intense concentration. No, he was hungry for betterment. For anything that would make him something of worth, to someone, anyone. Sometimes that thing which made him worthy was his small size, his sharp eyes, his remorseless intellect. Sometimes it was his ability to be invisible, go unnoticed. Sometimes it was that he was so desperate to be of worth, he would do whatever was required of him. Whatever it was, it was never enough for very long.

The long passage in Elizabeth Gilbert’s _The Significance of All Things_ about young Henry Whittaker reminded me somewhat of him:

“[Henry Whittaker’s father] the Apple Magus, for all his talents, was a simply man, with a timid wife, but they somehow turned out six rough and violent sons (including one boy called “the Terror of Richmond” and tow others who would end up dead in tavern brawls.) Henry, the youngest, was in some ways the roughest of them all, and perhaps needed to be, to survive his brothers. He was a stubborn and enduring little whippet, a thin and exploding contrivance, who could be trusted to receive his brother’s beatings stoically, and whose fearlessness was frequently put to the test by others, who liked to dare him into taking risks….

But unlike his brothers, Henry had a redeeming attribute. Two of them, to be exact: he was intelligent, and he was interested in trees…experience had already instructed Henry that learning things gave a person advantage over other people. If one wanted to continue living (and Henry did) and if one wanted to ultimately prosper (and Henry did), then anything that could be learned, should be learned. Latin, penmanship, riding, dancing – all of these were out of reach to Henry. But he had trees, and he had his father, the Apple Magus, who patiently took the trouble to teach him.”

Young Fergus had learned from his mother how to manipulate, how to persuade, negotiate, and obscure. He obviously learned how to sew and tailor, either during an apprenticeship or in the poorhouse itself. But he likely learned other things. Less employable trades, but certainly more beneficial trades. Things which would come in handy for a young lad on his own in 1670’s Scotland. Things which would one day prove useful for the king of crossroads, and then, the king of hell.


	12. Crowley & Spellcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post and (awesome) moodboard here:[Crowley & Spellcraft](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/190973833718/oh-youre-right-just-let-me-wave-my-magic-wand)

“Oh, you’re right – just let me wave my magic wand and _**bibbity-bobbity boo** the bastard away!_” – Crowley, probably

Crowley’s version of spellcraft would be adapted to life on the road, to limited resources and patience, and indifference towards the craft of magic.

Given his history with witches, Crowley would not be disposed to intensely study or use magic. He would be adept at it only because of its usefulness to him and to the boys. And he would be hesitant about relying on it too heavily, preferring instead to use his wits to obtain his goals. Only when the circumstances required it, or it would have proven more efficient in hindsight, would Crowley bother to rifle through magical texts and lore for useful spells. And he would carry only the most basic of spell ingredients, preferring to use whatever came to hand at the time. There’s no time or interest for in-depth study of herbology or biology. His version of spellcraft would directly reflect the life of a demon-turned-demonologist on the road with a pair of flannelled hunters: straightforward, course, bare bones.

This grimy, practical sort of spellcraft would be lacking in dramatic flair. That sort of nonsense would be reserved for striking fear in an opponent, or delighting a layperson. No, Crowley’s sort of spellcraft – if it could even really be called that – would be brusque, irritated, and impatient. (Which might occasionally cause some mishaps. Oops.) And he would have little qualms about using spells or hex bags on victims or allies, if it moved the case along, or offered necessary protection, or avoided violence. For Crowley, hunting would be one small part of everything he and the Winchesters were attempting to accomplish, and individual cases – while worth their while – would still be somewhat of a nuisance. If magic was the quickest means of resolving a case, he’d make use of it, but never relish spellcraft for its own sake.

Crowley would askew most spell ingredients, be more comfortable with common components, use whatever came readily to hand on the road. Graveyard dust, chalk, the stub of a candle. He would carry a battered tin with the most basic of herbs, salt, and the like. No long hours spent over the mortar and pestle for him. His hex bags would be made of thin swatches of old flannel shirts and worn jeans that could no longer be patched, stained oil rags, and paper napkins collected from all the diners and coffee shops along the road. Along with his angel blade and the demon knife, Crowley would always carry a pocket knife, clean and well-sharpened, to slice a palm with. And needle and thread – not specifically for working magic, but one never knows when such things might come in handy.

He would also carry a flask and a lighter. Not a flask containing whiskey or tea. No, this flask would contain blessed water or holy oil, for spellcraft or expelling demons. All well and good, until one night he’d confuse that flask with his whiskey flask, not knowing he was taking a good, long pull of blessed water until it was too late. (Ouch.) To ensure against future mishaps, Dean would suggest “labelling the damned thing,” and Sam, in an attempt at still slow reconciliation, would commission a flask engraved with “Blessed Water: Do Not Drink, Idjit” on the leather encasement. For a while, Crowley would carry books of matches scavenged from motely motel rooms and beer halls. Then one day, in a grimy consignment shop that occasionally peddled supernatural trinkets, he’d come across a shiny, gleaming zippo lighter. Not a scratch on it. Salt and burn, he’d think ruefully. Crowley would carry it separately in its own pocket, where he could reach in, flick open and then snap shut the top. He would hold the lighter in his hand as he stared out the window on long drives, enjoying the sharpness of the sound it made, the way it would irritate Dean in the driver’s seat in front of him.

Crowley would keep a journal, too. Oh, not for magic or anything like that. No, the journal is entirely separate, and will be written about again, at another time. But he would keep a thin, flat notebook of a sort to scribble in. Half his spells would be frankensteined together from work by the grand masters of magic, and his notebook would be full of mad calculation and annotations. Crowley would otherwise prefer to write with ink pens, but – having learned a little something from the Russians – would carry only pencils, worrying them down to nubs with his frantic, irascible scribbling, as he cobbled together spells while wraiths and other threats raged around them.

Crowley would carry it all in a battered leather or canvas messenger bag, something that had seen plenty of wear and tear. The bag itself, in Crowley’s opinion, would be worth more than all the spell ingredients in his tin, and only slightly less than his engraved flask and angel blade. It would be the only bit of spellcraft he was proud of performing. He’d learned a thing or two from Mary Poppins as well – anything that could fit into the opening of the bag, the bag made room for inside. Entire libraries of lore could disappear into its depths, and be called forth by simply reaching inside. Weapons, medical supplies, supernatural artifacts, iron knuckles, summoning bowls, a change of clothes, car parts, packed lunches, once an entire elementary school class. All without adding an ounce of weight. It would be fair to say there would be a time or two that that bag, and what it contained, would save the world.

Crowley wouldn’t care much for spellcraft, and whether or not he was adept at it, whether or not he was a natural, wouldn’t be of much interest to him. What would matter is that magic would be one of the means by which Crowley felt like he was pulling his weight among the boys. One of the ways he contributed, made the world better, made himself of value. And on the very rare occasions another Winchester prank war broke out, would likely prove to be very useful indeed.

Thank you to @additionaladdams for suggesting a witch!Crowley mood board. As I tried to decide on what images to use, I began to think about how Crowley would use untraditional ingredients and implements for spellcraft that were better suited to life on the road and his own distaste for magic. And that led to all this wonderful character development, which gave me a great deal of insight for my Bergamot & Sulphur series, as well as my One of the Boys series. The bottomless messenger bag has been with me a very long time, well before I actually began to write spn fanfiction, and I’ve always imagined Crowley – as one of the boys – would utilize it. The bag actually has quite a bit of backstory that, like the journal mentioned above, I won’t bore you with here.

The non-quote at the top is what I imagine Crowley snarking back at the boys with after one of them suggests using magic to take out some opponent that they are ill-equipped to defeat. I think it sums up his opinion of spellcraft – and occasionally, the Winchesters – rather well.


	13. Castiel & Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post and (awesome) moodboard here: [Castiel & Healing](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/613878364476932096/dean-that-whiskey-is-meant-for-sterilizing)

“Dean, that whiskey is meant for sterilizing wounds and acting as an analgesic. It is not meant for casual consumption. And no, stubbing your baby toe does not count as a medical emergency.” – Castiel, probably 

As his angelic powers decrease after helping to close the Gates of Heaven and joining the boys, Cas would need a new purpose. A new way to contribute. In his gruff (secretly well-meaning) way, Crowley would point out that healing comes naturally to Cas. And that it is something that is often in short supply for the Winchesters, as well as other hunters, for victims, and for the vast majority of non-humans. After giving the matter his usual solemn (Crowley would call it constipated) consideration, Cas would announce he is determined to be the team’s medic.

At first, he would haphazardly fill an extra duffle bag of Dean’s with whatever basics they have on hand: aspirin, a few bandages, a thermometer, a massive orange for some emergency vitamin c. And just as Cas fumbled about as a fledging hunter and then human, for a time he would harry and harass the others during and after cases, dabbing at wounds, checking pulses, and examining bruises. Being more of a bother than anything, however well-meaning.

After one of the boys becomes seriously injured on a hunt, Cas would decide it was time to take his responsibilities more seriously. He would begin by learning basic first aid. Some he would learn from actual professional hands-on training and webinars, some he would piece together from what Dean and Sam learned over the years. He would learn stitches from Sam, the value of frozen bags of peas from Jody, and how to sterilize wounds with alcohol from Dean (of course). He would learn a bit of herbcraft from Rowena, and small healing spells that Crowley would begrudgingly share with him, using the demon’s barebones and gruff sort of spellcraft. Occasionally, Crowley would help by making poultices and herbal extracts. And the demon-turned-demonologist wouldn’t mind plying his old black market contacts to get pain meds and basic supplies like sterilized needles and fresh bandages.

Then Cas would begin to study human biology. He of course would know humans inside and out already, but they are complex creatures, and treating them would be different than knowing the makeup of their systems. He would obtain medical text books from local bookstores and universities, pouring over the most minute detail of recent medical discoveries and traditional home remedies alike. He would use his FBI credentials to observe surgeries at local hospitals, autopsies at local morgues, and make friends with the doctors and nurses and lab techs, who would explain to him the uses of lab equipment, let him stare into microscopes, and guide him in coming to terms with the fact that, with or without angelic powers, medical personnel are not miracles workers, and not everyone can be saved. 

The more Cas would learn, the more suffering he would know he couldn’t prevent - and how little he could actually do to care for these hunters, this human family, the he is now bonded to. He would develop a real passion for healing, for the strenuous study of the natural sciences, something his interest in insects and nature had already prepared him for. Cas would learn everything he could about herbal medicine, modern and biochemical medicine, alternative quasi-medicine - which Cas wouldn’t have much patience for - and battlefield triage. Because battle triage would be, after all, what he most often practiced. He would get his hands bloody with surgery. He would treat curses and hexes and the common cold. Cas would care and heal in every way available to a fallen angel.

Now, before a hunt, he would tightly pack properly wrapped bandages and sterilized surgical equipment in sealed plastic pouches. Clamps and swabs and forceps and surgical scissors and cloth scissors and a small hand saw. Tourniquets, and syringes, and braces for broken hands. Surgical gloves and masks (more for any human helpers than for himself), headlamps and extra batteries and a small torch meant for Crowley’s crème brulees. He would pack jars of ointments and poultices and herbs banded securely into zippered cases, iodine and alcohol, tiny tinkling bottles of penicillin, heparin to slow blood loss, general and local anesthetics, tetanus vaccines, and child-proof containers of pain meds which Cas would conservatively distribute and carefully guard. 

He would pack it all securely in a rucksack the boys had found, along with various other useful items, in a forgotten storage room in the bunker, where Sam and Dean had moved all the old Men of Letters personal items years ago. It smelled of old leather, sandalwood and Edwardian intellectual elitism, but it was also light, and fit well over Cas’s shoulder, and could comfortably carry everything he required. Like his wings once had, it would be a comfort to feel pressed against his back, as he and the others marched towards whatever peril awaited them.

Cas would take an interest in preventative medicine as well, taking to heart the notion that a good offense was a good defense, or some variance of that sports talk he never quite grasped. That meant encouraging the others – and himself – to take regular exercise, eat well, get sleep when they could, decrease their alcohol consumption (Dean didn’t like that one, but Crowley supported Cas in the notion, arguing that having died from alcoholism once, he had no desire to repeat the experience or sit by and watch Dean do the same), and get more sunlight than the bunker’s defenses allowed. Cas wouldn’t so much as win the fight for healthier foods at the Winchester table, as conspire with Crowley to provide irresistible morsels that could deceive a wary Winchester into believing he was eating his usual fare of fat and salt.

The angel-turned-medic would become to believe strongly in the medicinal quality of food, especially homemade meals. Soups and curries, broths and stews, vegetable hashes and salads laden with field greens. Hearty wheat loaves fresh from the oven, and raw milk from local dairies (it’s Kansas, after all), and the seasonal bounty of berries piled onto heaping helpings of porridge with hot honey. He would plant a small garden beyond the walls of the bunker, growing herbs and roots, flowers and basic ingredients for tonics. It would also be a place of quiet and meditation for Cas, as important to his well-being as the medicine for the bodies of his human companions. He would sit in his garden and commune with the insects and the birds and small woodland creatures and feel his essence becoming more and more like their own as divinity and grace reformed itself into soul.

And he would take great pride in learning to care for non-humans. Monsters, the Winchesters had called them once. And yet, now they counted among their friends angels and demons and self-restrained werewolves and reformed vampires and kitsune and all other sorts. And many of them unable to acquire even the most basic of medical care in a world that sees them as things to be hunted down and destroyed. Cas would contemplate that if werewolves require special dentistry, than likely other non-humans require special medical care, and would set himself to the task of acquiring the knowledge necessary to tend wounded friends and assist with basic care. That would lead him down a long road involving correcting lore with Crowley, learning medicinal magic with Rowena, teaching hunters with Sam and Dean, and earning a reputation across the supernatural world for his skills and his empathy.

Cas would find himself a place not as an angelic healer, capable of the miracles he had once so easily managed, but for his dedication and forthrightness, his willingness to learn, his eagerness to help, and his lack of judgement for those in need. He would sit by bedsides offering honesty as much as comfort, develop with Crowley and others a deeper understanding of what their family creed of “saving people” truly meant, and bridge the theological gap between those to be hunted and those to be healed. It would be a long road from the angel he had been, who saw abominations before him, who felt useless without wings, to the man and the medic he is now. But Cas would decide he had found a fulfilling purpose, and a place with his family.


	14. Imaginary Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: Where did this disappear to?  
> And additional Tumblr post about this: [Dean & Crowley's Imaginary Friends](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/179653269845/just-rewatched-11x08-just-my-imagination)

Just as Crowley is getting comfortable in the bunker and secure in his position as one of the boys, Sully the Zanna stops in to visit Sam. Try as he might, Crowley simply cannot un-contort his face from an outlandish look of disgust.

Crowley: Marshmallow nachos and tri-colored suspenders? Samuel. I’m not sure my good opinion of you will ever recover.

Sam: Dude, I was 11!

Crowley: *all smirk* Excuses, excuses.

Sam: *scoffs* Huh. So, Crowley, you never had an imaginary friend growing up?

Crowley: *remembers the giant, simple-minded Scotsman who was his imaginary friend as a child; who could lift entire mountains and laugh louder than thunder; who told grand stories of braving the moors alone, using his great big club to barrel down English soldiers and witchhunters alike; who tucked him in at night and kept away the monsters a witch’s son knew lurked beyond the damp clod walls of their little cottage; who sang long, wistful songs of ancient glory after a pint or two; who brawled and bellowed at the pigs that they were all destined for the pot; who made faces behind Rowena’s back when she scolded small Fergus; who told Fergus he was a smart and talented lad; who loved him and never left until his charge was tucked away in a workhouse at age eight; who nine-year-old Fergus, hard at work at his tailor’s bench, imagined still roaming the moors, whistling some jaunty tune.*

Crowley: *glares* No. 

Crowley: *looks pointedly at Sully, taps the jacket sleeve where his angel blade is sheathed* I am armed, just so you’re aware.


	15. Sobriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [Mark Sheppard Celebrates 30 Years of Sobriety](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/623376008410808321/over-30-years-of-sobriety-it-must-be-interesting)

I think that Crowley and Dean’s drinking would have become more of an issue later on, for the two of them, after Crowley joined the Winchesters. I can’t see how it wouldn’t.

At first, Dean and Crowley might have enabled each other, sometimes unintentionally and sometimes not. Enjoying a good drink was something they shared, after all. A bonding experience, a touchstone in their friendship. But I think ultimately, Crowley would have made the conscious decision to cut back, though never give it up completely. Maybe because, struggling with his more demonic influences as he tried to navigate human emotions and relationships, he wouldn’t want to feel he was under the influence of anything else. Maybe because he felt like he needed to be fully in control in this new life, or because people depended on him, or because he felt it was impairing his ability to work at his full potential. Maybe because he could see how he was enabling Dean, for whom there were real consequences in terms of health and hunting and life. Maybe because, if Crowley considered ever becoming fully human again, he didn’t want to drink himself to death a second time, and watch Dean do the same. 

I like to think that what had been an enabling relationship would have became a (subtle, we’re-not-talking-about-our-problems-but-i-got-you) supportive relationship between Dean and Crowley. They set some unspoken ground rules, kept each other honest, gave each other the “really? now?” look every now and then. Made sure there were root beers in the fridge, as an alternative. Kept each other occupied when they normally would have had a drink, with pool or darts or some adorably weird obsession they developed together, like infomania over swords or critiquing historical accuracy in medieval sci-fi fantasy tv shows. That they picked a night once a month that was their night to go to a bar and kick back, have fun, Dean sleeping it off in Baby’s backseat and Crowley scrolling through the internet on his phone until he could drive them both home. If not entirely healthy than at least healthier.

And being there for each other when things got bad, went dark. When the whiskey called or needing an out was just too much. When the loss hit hard or the world felt like it really was ending, and the only thing one of them wanted was to crawl into the bottom of a bottle. Maybe when Dean’s nightmares of blood and blade and killing kept him awake night after night. Or Crowley’s thoughts turned towards all the bodies he’d left in his wake, the crush of inescapable damnation - or worse, the possibility of full humanity, and facing the full force of his conscience along with it. Then they’d be the one person the other knew wouldn’t judge, would pull them back when they drank too deep, who when they said “enough,” it really was enough.

The whiskey might have led to some good times, some memorable nights, some sincere conversation. Those times might have deepened Crowley and Dean’s own profound bond. But it would never have been about or because of the drink. Because the nights they fought against it and the other was there for them, the days they went without it increasing in number - 30 days, 30 months, 30 years - and quietly celebrating that together, the time one of them reached for the bottle and realized they didn’t need it - because they could turn to the other instead - that deepened that bond more.


	16. Denim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr post which inspired this ficlet: [Jensen in Double Denim](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/188885537525/sartorial-jensen-spndc-2019-x)

I like the idea that as Crowley gets more and more comfortable in the bunker with the boys, the more human qualities he begins to exhibit, the less he dresses like a suave, sophisticated psychopath. Any episode that begins in the bunker includes a scene of Sam and Dean in the kitchen, talking about the next case or end of the world, and Crowley coming through the door dressed slightly less demonic. Crowley and Cas’ powers begin to wane and they become more and more human, until Crowley’s stumbling in, disheveled and only half-awake, wearing pj bottoms and a t-shirt that says “I like tea and maybe three people.” And then one afternoon he walks in wearing “double denim” – jeans and a denim button-down shirt, and in response to their questioning, amused looks, replies “What?” and then irritably “Shut up.”

(That t-shirt actually exists, by the way.)

And when Crowley stumbles in wearing it, Dean definitely takes a head count of the room just to be sure he’s included.

There is absolutely no way Crowley would have bought that t-shirt for himself, or agreed to wear it if one of the other boys had given it to him. It must have been a gift. Maybe someone – Claire – gifts all four of them with t-shirts and pajama bottoms.

Crowley’s shirt says “I Like Tea, And Maybe Three People.”  
Dean’s shirt says “Love Me Some Pie” with a slice of pie.  
Cas’ shirt says “Bee Yourself” with little bees buzzing around the words.  
And Sam’s shirt just has the silhouette of a moose.

Castiel sincerely commends Claire for her choice of gifts. He thinks “Bee Yourself” is very good advice. And that Dean’s and Crowley’s t-shirts are quite accurate. And Crowley can’t be too upset with Claire about the indignity of her presents, because he knows it’s more of a joke she’s playing on Cas than on any of the rest of them. Silly angel, not realizing he’s being made fun of by the little hellion.

So Crowley wears the shirt to sleep in without too much complaint. And discovers it’s rather comfortable. And that, secretly, he doesn’t mind a bit of indignity. And forever swears up and down he’s only wearing it for Claire’s sake, so she won’t think he’s ungrateful, even as they exchange knowing looks and chuckle. It’s one of Crowley’s favorite things that he owns in this new life.

And, he admits to himself, the shirt is now only half true. He does very much like a good cup of tea.


	17. 2020 Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [2020 Holidays Wish](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/636447479976574976/demonologist-in-denim-demonologist-in-denim-i)

I don’t want a lot for the holidays, but I do want an spn fanfic where Dean tells Crowley that he’s a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich, with arsenic sauce. It would be up to the writer whether Dean actually meant it or not.

Update:  
I’ve changed my mind. I made the mistake of watching a holiday episode of the Great British Bake Off. And now I want a Crowley and the boys holiday-themed baking fic, with Crowley responding to their teasing about his iced biscuits with “I’m perfectly capable of being festive, you know!”

Update #2:  
The cookies are shaped like Chevs, and perfectly iced to look like the Impala. He whips up a batch of mince pies in delicate shortbread crusts, topped with brandy butter. And an orange and hazelnut bundt cake, with chocolate ganache, and ginger caramels that disappear from the little tin on the library table as quickly as he can make them.

And when company comes a-calling, or the boys go to see Lebanon all done up in lights, Crowley dresses up in a black Victorian top hat, complete with red ribbon and a sprig of holly sticking out of the band. He looks rather trim in the red velvet waistcoat over his usual black attire. And is perhaps a little too fond of catching just about everyone under the mistletoe. He’d blame it on the Darjeeling and Scotch he keeps in a flask in his coat pocket, but he’s fairly certain no one would believe him.

Castiel follows the demon’s lead in changing his clothes for the festivities by donning what can only be described as the ugliest of holiday sweaters. And responds to perturbed and amused looks by remarking he has been informed that this is the traditionally appropriate attire. And, he adds, he likes it. It’s very warm and comfortable. And Dean seems rather pleased by it too, from Cas’ perspective, since he keeps insisting that the angel be front and center in every photograph that gets taken of them all.

Sam isn’t entirely sure which one of them, Dean or Crowley, is doing it. But someone keeps leaving light-up antler headbands in his room and the library and the passenger seat of the Impala, with the obvious expectation that Sam wear them. He keeps throwing them away. And they keep returning. When he presses the button on one of the ears, little green and red holiday lights flicker at the ends of each of the antler points, and a hideously tinny voice sings an off-putting variation of Jingle Bells. No matter what Sam does, he can’t seem to get rid of them.

Dean, for his part, is just happy to share the holidays with his family.


	18. Personalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [A Is For Assbutt: Personalia](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/614410228492107776/personalia-noun-biographical-data-personal)

Due to his having lived through some of the most interesting times in history, and likely been involved in a great many of the world’s happenings, nothing is more intriguing than Crowley’s personalia.

As a human, he would have lived through the final years of witch hunting, the consequences of the Jacobite rebellions and the end of the clan system in Scotland.

As a demon, depending on when he first returned to walk the world in another’s skin, he would have seen the Napoleonic Wars, the Enlightenment, the fall of old empires and the rise of new ones, countless wars over trade, politics, and religion. The court intrigues alone! The world cracking open before him, as travel extended to all corners of the globe. The languages and customs he must have needed to learn to make deals in the Qing Empire, to accompany Jesuits in the jungles of South America, conversed with scholars in Timbuktu and princes in Prussia. He would have read the great writers in their first editions (and maybe even have bought some of their souls), leaned over the shoulders of inventors and doctors and statesmen, walked the world along with famine and plague.

Crowley would have seen agriculture give way to industry, two world wars, and men landing on the moon! The people he must have known (and yes, damned and murdered), the stories he would have heard, the worlds now lost he would have seen, never mind the addition of the supernatural to the marvels and blunders of humanity.

Who wouldn’t want to sit him down and say, tell me your story?


	19. Happy Holidays 2020

I don’t want a lot for the holidays, but I do want an spn fanfic where Dean tells Crowley that he’s a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich, with arsenic sauce. It would be up to the writer whether Dean actually meant it or not.

.

* * *

.

I’ve changed my mind. I made the mistake of watching a holiday episode of the Great British Bake Off. And now I want a Crowley and the boys holiday-themed baking fic, with Crowley responding to their teasing about his iced biscuits with “I’m perfectly capable of being festive, you know!”

.

* * *

.

The cookies are shaped like Chevs, and perfectly iced to look like the Impala. He whips up a batch of mince pies in delicate shortbread crusts, topped with brandy butter. And an orange and hazelnut bundt cake, with chocolate ganache, and ginger caramels that disappear from the little tin on the library table as quickly as he can make them.

And when company comes a-calling, or the boys go to see Lebanon all done up in lights, Crowley dresses up in a black Victorian top hat, complete with red ribbon and a sprig of holly sticking out of the band. He looks rather trim in the red velvet waistcoat over his usual black attire. And is perhaps a little too fond of catching just about everyone under the mistletoe. He’d blame it on the Darjeeling and Scotch he keeps in a flask in his coat pocket, but he’s fairly certain no one would believe him.

Castiel follows the demon’s lead in changing his clothes for the festivities by donning what can only be described as the ugliest of holiday sweaters. And responds to perturbed and amused looks by remarking he has been informed that this is the traditionally appropriate attire. And, he adds, he likes it. It’s very warm and comfortable. And Dean seems rather pleased by it too, from Cas’ perspective, since he keeps insisting that the angel be front and center in every photograph that gets taken of them all.

Sam isn’t entirely sure which one of them, Dean or Crowley, is doing it. But someone keeps leaving light-up antler headbands in his room and the library and the passenger seat of the Impala, with the obvious expectation that Sam wear them. He keeps throwing them away. And they keep returning. When he presses the button on one of the ears, little green and red holiday lights flicker at the ends of each of the antler points, and a hideously tinny voice sings an off-putting variation of Jingle Bells. No matter what Sam does, he can’t seem to get rid of them.

Dean, for his part, is just happy to share the holidays with his family.

.

* * *

.

And on Christmas Eve, after the Winchesters have gone to bed, and Castiel has wandered outside to stare up into the gentle flurry of snowflakes drifting through the night sky, Crowley makes himself a cup of tea, and sits in the library, enjoying the seasonal warmth the room holds. The lights from the tree, the smell of pine, the gentle croon of a yule-time song.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas...Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more...Through the years, we will all be together, if the fates allow...”

Beautifully wrapped packages wait under the tree. A luxurious robe for Dean. ([Nothing could beat what he got Dean for the holidays last year.](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F17501252&t=OTE5MDA5YjRkZjYyNTg3NmIzNjc3MTdlN2EwZTZkOTY3ZDE0YmRmYiw2YjU0ZDYxZjhkYTRiNjc5ZTFjNWE4NGNiNDQ1ZTVmNTk1ZGVmZjc3&ts=1608953414)) Enchanted glasses for Sam, to be able to read any language. A getting-to-know-you present for Eileen. Cas’ gift will have to be wrapped at literally the last moment, the guinea pig in its cage biding its time in Crowley’s study. There’s even a small present tucked up in the branches for Rowena, who Crowley generously invited for family dinner tomorrow.

It’s breakfast that Crowley is really looking for to, however. Everyone coming into the kitchen bright-eyed and awake, for once. Eager for the delights of the day. Crowley plans to serve eggs benedict on rosemary pecorino scones, with honeyed ham or paprika spinach, drizzled in rich hollandaise sauce. Then there will be presents, a holiday movie, mid-day tea and treats, a board game or a few rounds of chess. And then everyone into the kitchen, those not helping with the cooking chatting around the counter, telling stories. Being together. And then dinner, with all of them gathered round. After that, it’s out into the snow for an evening of visits and caroling - something which Crowley has regrettably been roped into, but ultimately refuses to be excluded from. And then back to the bunker for late night hot chocolate, loaded down with marshmallows and homemade whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

But until then, there is just the quiet of the evening, the glow of the lights, and the joy that comes from knowing very soon, the happiest of memories will be made. Crowley smiles to himself, enjoying the moment and - as always - a good cuppa tea.


	20. Eileen & Gus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original posted on Tumblr [here](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/639879724884164608/demonologist-in-denim-when-crowley-is-frustrated).

When Crowley is frustrated with them all, it’s Squirrel, Moose, Feathers, Witch. And Eileen. When Crowley is carrying on a normal conversation, it’s Dean, Sam, Cas, Mother. And Eileen. And when Crowley is feeling particularly affectionate, it’s Squirrel, Moose, Feathers, Rowena. And dearest Eileen.

I just like the idea that Crowley is cautious of Eileen being able to kick his ass, respectful of her on an everyday basis, and has an especially tender spot for her when he’s feeling emotionally vulnerable that he only ever uses her actual name.

And rather than making her feel singled out, Eileen, because she is Eileen, understands it to be the special treatment that it is.

So that when she’s angry with him, she only ever calls him Crowley – not Demon or Son of a Bitch like some of the others – and in everyday conversation, she calls him Crowley because it’s the name he chose for himself. And when it’s just the two of them, and she can tell Crowley needs a bit of kindness, Eileen calls him Gus. Not Fergus. Gus. Even though he doesn’t particularly care for the name, Crowley allows it. Because it comes from Eileen. And he’d damn well disembowel anyone else who ever called him that. But for dearest Eileen, Crowley is willing to be Gus, every now and then.

* * *

And that is what breaks him, when on a hunt Eileen is possessed by a demon.

There are so few demons left in the world. Crowley has done an excellent job, since becoming one of the boys, of becoming family after closing the Gates of Hell, of methodically hunting them all done and destroying them. But this one eluded his grasp. Caught Eileen working a case alone. Burned off her anti-possession tattoo. And wore her back into the bunker.

Crowley doesn’t care that the demon is here for him. That it’s come to make him suffer for how he’s betrayed his own kind, closed the Gates, hunted them all down. He doesn’t care that it’s got him and the others pinned against the walls of the library, that they might all be about to die. They’ve overcome far worse.

What matters – what _hurts_ – is how the demon wearing Eileen says his name. Says her name for him.

“Guuus,” the demon says, dragging it out in a mocking tone, with a little sly grin at the end. Making it sound sensual, and unclean. Taking something intimate, something deeply human, something Crowley is only now realizing he’s come to value – this stupid, unsuitable rendition of his former name – something close to his heart as Eileen’s friendship is close to his heart, and twisting into just one more part of himself that is corrupted by Hell.

Crowley has possessed countless people over the centuries. He knows how possession works, what it _feels_ like, for the demon and for the soul. The person inside, screaming, clawing at the edges of their confinement. The demon wearing their skin, hungry and limitless. It stares out through the eyes of its meatsuit, delighting in Eileen’s suffering, in Crowley’s suffering. Before now, Crowley has never thought of another demon as an “it”. Before this, he has never thought about a meatsuit as a person. He cannot call her a meatsuit. Her name is Eileen.

It is dearest Eileen, his friend. His friend who calls him Gus. The _only one_ allowed to call him by that name, to even know of its existence. And this demon that has possessed her – Crowley is suddenly willing to burn down the whole world. This demon saying that name breaks him in a way Crowley wasn’t aware his kintsugied together soul could still be broken, like he is back on Hell’s rack.

He is going to kick this _fucking_ _demon’s ass_. If Sam or Dean – or Eileen herself – doesn’t bloody well beat him to it.


	21. Swan Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post: [Crowley's Version of Swan Song](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/641786051939155968/musedean-if-stories-were-told-by-crowley-back)

“Back in the ‘70’s, when most things were still groovy and before greed became good, the 100 millionth gas-guzzler by some corporate giant rolled off the manufacturing line. There was a big to-do, who knows why. Chance to drink, I suppose. Three days later, another car – a far more important car – rolled off the same line. No fanfare for her. But that 1967 Chevrolet Impala was to play quite a big part where destiny was concerned.

She was first owned by some shmuck with two ex-wives, three block arteries, and a soul already stamped with yours truly’s cattle brand. Marked for Hell, he was. Spent the last few years of his life driving around in that Impala, handing out bibles. Thinking maybe he could grease himself up, slip out of his contract and squirt right on through those pearly gates. No such luck, but I digress.

Shmuck dies, goes to Hell, his pretty little lady ends up in a used car lot in Lawrence, Kansas. A handsome piece of neo-imperialist cannon fodder finds her, buys her on impulse. That is, after a little advise from a friend. ‘Course, that’s not where this story begins. It actually begins with another pretty young thing, by the name of Mary Campbell, who, like so many others, made a deal she later regretted. And it ends with that ’67 Chevy Impala and her two sons standing in a graveyard, facing down the devil.

Oh, and let’s not forget the rather dashing, clever king of the crossroads who helped them win the day, shall we?”

-Crowley, telling his own version of Swan Song.


	22. Happy Birthday, Petra

Humming to himself, Crowley dusted the rich dark cocoa powder into the soft white flour, and reached for his trusty wooden spoon. Blending ingredients in a mixer tended to create a smoother batter, but Crowley enjoyed the feel of the spoon in his hand, the sound it made scraping the bottom of the bowl, the hands-on experience of turning flour and sugar and eggs into cake.

When the dry ingredients were properly combined, he made a well in the center and carefully poured in the buttermilk, eggs, butter and vanilla. Instead of the usual red food coloring, Crowley added in fresh beet puree – just enough to give the cake a velvety ruby hue. The rich cocoa would cover the hint of earth with a delicate chocolate flavor. The mixture was then evening distributed between three pans and scooched into the oven.

While the cakes baked, he set to work on the frosting. The softened cream cheese and unsalted butter whipped together beautifully. He settled on using far less powdered sugar than the recipe called for, wanting the tangy sweetness of the cream cheese to accent the cake all on its own.

“Would have asked about any preferences in decoration,” Crowley muttered to himself as he applied the crumb coating to the cake, once it was done baking and properly cooled, “but that would have tipped my hand.” Simple yet elegant seemed appropriate. After applying a thick final layer of cream cheese frosting, Crowley piped fluffy buttercream swirls along the rim of the red velvet cake. A soft pile of crumbled extra cake crowned the top, and he tossed more along the side to create a dusting effect.

There was nothing left now except to take the photo.

Which, as fate would have it, turned out to be the difficult part.

He positioned the cake on the kitchen table, and snapped a few photos. Crowley hmmmed to himself. It wasn’t quite up to his standard of food porn. Perhaps he’d take a few more, just to be on the safe side. Until one was suitably flattering. He was still adjusting the cake, playing with the proper angle and lighting for the perfect shot, when Sam and Dean strolled into the kitchen.

For a moment, they lingered at a respectful distance. But Crowley could sense their curiosity like a gathering storm of rose petals, soft yet burdensome.

“Can I help you two with something?”

Disbelief and delight were tugging a one-sided smile out of Sam. “Is – is that for Valentine’s Day?”

Valentine’s Day? Crowley narrowed his eyes at the elegant dessert. Bloody hell, the cake was red and white, wasn’t it? He hadn’t considered that when a bit of carefully applied questioning had disclosed the recipient’s cake preferences.

Crowley mulled the situation over. He couldn’t answer in the affirmative. That would mean he had intentionally crafted the cake as a celebration of gushy hearts and the sweet delirium of – internally, Crowley cringed – love. But he also couldn’t reply with a defensive and definitive “no”. That would only open him up to further, unwelcome inquiry.

He settled for the more characteristically dismissive third option.

“It’s Valentine’s Day?” Crowley steadfastly went back to attempting to capture the perfect photo with his phone. “I don’t bother myself keeping track of that sort of thing.”

Dean eyed the demon knowingly. “Yeah, well, our Netflix recommendations would say otherwise.”

Crowley glowered at the hunter.

“Whatever the occasion,” Sam offered up as his brother idled over to the cake, “that’s professional-grade baking. You’ve got a real talent. The frosting, the whole look? Seriously, I’m impressed.”

The arrow of this flannelled cupid hit its mark. Crowley felt a slight blush of pleasure, despite himself. Casual, unsolicited praise? From Sam Winchester? He seriously contemplated the possibility that Sam had been exposed to some sort of low-grade, poorly-concocted love spell that had bloomed into amiability, or maybe it had been released as a pink mist in the bunker’s common room, and Crowley had unknowingly avoided the worst of it. That seemed like the sort of malarkey that would happen around here on what, apparently, was Valentine’s Day. 

Because Crowley found himself saying, “Thank you, Sam,” with actual sincerity. Moments such as these reminded Crowley that he was rather fond of these two boys, after all.

That was the moment Dean ran his finger along the edge of the cake, carrying off a large dollop of frosting from one side. The whole cake just looked so enticing! Dean was more of a pie man himself, but Crowley’s culinary expertise had the tendency to tempt him in surprising ways.

He was halfway to lifting the frosting-festooned finger to his mouth when he caught sight of the expression on Crowley’s face. Sam’s own face was a rotting lemon. Dean’s hand stilled, mouth still open.

“Um,” he muttered.

Dean looked at the offending finger, uncertain of what to do next. He started to put the frosting back where it belonged, thought better of it, looked for a napkin, and reluctantly settled for ashamedly completing the crime by depositing the frosting in his mouth.

Which was a mistake. Because now he knew the cake was friggin’ delicious, and Dean seriously wondered if maybe Crowley could manage his little photo shoot even if there was a slice of the cake missing.

As if he could read his brother’s mind, Sam shook his head in the most supreme disappointment. “Dean.”

“What?! Sorry!”

Reminding himself that murdering one Winchester brother would only end with him being ganked by the other one – though there were certainly times it seemed worth it – Crowley took a deep inhalation, and let it go. Cakes were ultimately meant to be eaten, even if it was by inconsiderate louts and lumberjacks.

“I’ll accept your apology, if you cut everyone else a slice before digging in yourself. I’m sure one of the photos I took before your little indiscretion will suffice.”

“Alright! Cake!” Dean cheered, while Sam just closed his eyes.

Crowley thumbed through the multitude of pictures he’d taken, and settled on the most appealing of the lot. Then he opened up his Bumblr app, and made a new post:

@petrichoravellichor – in honor of your birthday today. Heard from a mutual that you have a particular fondness for red velvet cake. Hope it’s to your liking. – C

He sent the message and image off with a satisfied smile, then set about getting plates and forks, as this cake was obviously not going to survive the interest of the Winchester brothers much longer.

As Crowley was pulling plates out of the cupboard and Dean was cutting into the cake, Castiel wandered into the kitchen, attention entirely given over to his phone. The angel had graduated from texting and emojis to social media and memes, and sometimes he could be found scrolling through Twitter and Instagram with a rapt fascination that would out-fixate even the most plugged-in FOMO-obsessed teenager. There was a chiming sound as he entered the kitchen, as notification of a new post.

“Dude,” Dean was grinning from ear to ear, “Crowley made cake!” He pointed with delight at the dessert.

Cas looked up from his phone, saw the cake, and halted in the middle of the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes, examining the red velvet cake on the table in front of him. Then he looked back down at his phone in consternation. Cas looked at the cake again. Looked back at his phone, and then slowly, he looked at Crowley.

The demon looked from the angel to the cake, his eyes increasing in size as realization dawned.

“Is that – ?”

“Don’t you say one bloody word, angel!” Crowley blustered, a rush of red to his face further colored by the mortification of such abject exposure. “Not one word!”

And before anyone could say anything else, Crowley shoveled a huge slice of not-at-all birthday cake onto a plate, shoved it into Cas’ hand, and quickly excused himself from the kitchen.

“What,” Sam wondered to the startled room, “was that all about?”

Cas continued to stand in the middle of the room, cake in one hand and phone in the other, attempting to come to terms with having inadvertently discovered a fandom mutual was also a real-life friend, and the one he would have least expected. Unsettled, he took comfort in the certainty their shared mutual would appreciate the well wishes on their birthday.

Dean shrugged, merrily flipped the serving knife in his hand, then waved the tip at his brother. “That’s Crowley for you,” he observed, good mood undeterred. “Dude would cut out his own heart and blend it to make red cake batter before admitting to it, but deep down, he’s just a big ol’ teddy bear who wuvs hugs. Speaking of which – you see that giant pink moose Eileen sent you? Friggin’ adorable.”

Dean proceeded to cut a huge slice for himself, leaving a worried looking Sam staring down at the blood-red cake. Then the hunter stepped around a disconcerted Castiel, patting the angel on the shoulder, and strolled out of the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Petra! I’m sure you’re tired of your birthday comingling with Valentine’s Day, but when you said your cake preference was red velvet cake, what was I to do? ;)
> 
> If you’re wondering exactly why – or even how – Crowley became a member of the in-world spn fandom, you can find out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27798664/chapters/68054629).
> 
> See the cake itself [here](https://sugargeekshow.com/recipe/red-velvet-cake-recipe-2/).


	23. Brunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post can be found [here.](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/645048998599786496/demonologist-in-denim-the-caf%C3%A9-down-the-road-from)

Crowley sitting in his study in the bunker, reading a bit of self-indulgent historical fiction and eating a fresh-baked cinnamon roll while enjoying a cuppa tea.

That’s all I have for you today.

* * *

The café down the road from my house had a brunch special today: candied bacon and peanut butter stuffed French toast. And I immediately thought, if ever there was a breakfast that Dean, after discovering Crowley enjoys cooking, would attempt to puppy-dog-eyes Crowley into making for him, this would be it. And Crowley would roll his eyes at this ridiculous, indulgent breakfast and at the hunter’s pleading gaze – and then make it for him.

* * *

Petrichoravellichor:

#and as a thank you dean would very sneakily learn how to make a proper cup of tea just the way crowley likes #i'm talking phone calls with rowena youtube tutorials making sam test-taste his first attempts the whole shebang #and then just walk into the library one day when crowley is reading and set the cup down next to him #and just sort of shrug and smirk like 'what? i pay attention' when crowley looks up in surprise #because crowley deserves to be spoiled sometimes too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petra's addition made this post worth posting here, so thank you!


End file.
